A Shop in the High Street

by A Shop in the High Street (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  In his house on Chestnut Road, Barry Martin decided to abandon most of the furniture that had been his mother’s. He had first intended to arrange for a second-hand dealer to come and make him an offer for the lot, but remembered that Basil Griffiths was an expert at finding a home for unwanted items. He met him at the factory where they both still worked and asked him to take a look at the weekend.

  He thought of asking Caroline if there was anything she might like but decided against it. If they were ever to begin again, it had to be without anything being dragged along from the past. And that included even bland objects like chairs and tables. It would have to be a fresh beginning with nothing at all to tie them to previous mistakes.

  * * *

  Rhiannon was watching the old man whom she had seen leaving her back yard, going through the gate into the lane behind her house. He was hovering around Gertie Thomas’s shop on the corner opposite Temptations and as she watched, she saw him slip a couple of bananas into the front of his outsized overcoat and hurry away.

  She was about to run across and tell Gertie what she had seen, but Barry’s van pulling up outside Temptations prevented her. It was too late to catch the man and there was no point in upsetting Gertie unnecessarily. She would tell her later and warn her to keep a better eye on the goods displayed outside her shop window.

  Barry stepped out of the van and came towards her carrying a couple of suitcases. He explained that he was selling the house on Chestnut Road and moving back into the flat. Rhiannon contemplated his move with some sadness as he walked to and from the van, around the the back of Temptations and up the steps into the flat, carrying boxes, bags and what she recognised as new photographic equipment. It was almost history repeating itself, she mused. It was like it had been when Barry had worked as a photographer and she had been engaged to him and planning to make the flat above the shop their future home.

  She had no regrets about not marrying Barry. She would never have been as happy with him as she was with Charlie and his son Gwyn. The sadness she felt was for Barry himself. He seemed to be constantly changing direction on meeting obstacles that he persistently failed to overcome.

  Perhaps the flat was one of those unhappy places where no one could find happiness, she mused. So many people had come and gone since Nia and her had family moved out. Nia Martin and her sons Barry and Joseph had all lived there contentedly for many years. She tried not to think about her father sneaking in and out and sharing in that contentment.

  Barry had stayed on when his mother left to live in Chestnut Road, then it had been intended for Rhiannon herself to move in as Barry’s wife. When their plans were abandoned, and Barry had married Caroline Griffiths, he had taken his shy bride there, but that hadn’t been a success. He had been out a great deal, on photographic work. Many of his commissions had been in the evenings at parties and dances, and Caroline, coming from a lively family like the Griffithses, had suffered miserably from loneliness and had pined for her parents and brothers.

  A young woman and her daughter had lived in the flat for a while. Maisie Vasey and her daughter, little Em, had also been unhappy tenants. They had caused trouble in several families and had returned to where they had come from, unmourned.

  Now Barry was moving back, trying once again to build a photographic business, this time without his wife. Rhiannon wondered how long this sojourn would last.

  “It’s like a game of chess, the way people move in and out of that place,” Rhiannon told Charlie and her father that evening.

  “Pity you can’t get a job away from that sweet shop, love,” Lewis said. “Barry is a man who can’t make up his mind. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave you notice and ran the shop himself.”

  Charlie disagreed. “I don’t know the man well, but I think he’d be bored silly. He wouldn’t want to lose Rhiannon. All he has to do is spend the profits, she does the rest. No fear, Rhiannon has a job there for as long as she wants it.”

  Rhiannon felt herself blushing. If what she suspected were true, she wouldn’t be working anywhere in a few months’ time! She’d be preparing for the birth of her and Charlie’s baby. She hadn’t told anyone yet, although she thought her mother had guessed. In an effort to change the subject, afraid her secret would be revealed, she said, “I saw that shabby little old man yesterday, Charlie.”

  “He wasn’t in our back yard again was he?”

  “No, he was looking over the fence a few doors away early this morning. Then this afternoon, I saw him steal some bananas from Gertie Jones’s shop.”

  “I think we should mention him to the police,” Charlie said.

  “He hardly fits the description of the burglar from what you say, but he could be involved, spying out the land, noting when houses are empty, that sort of thing.”

  “You can’t go to the police, Charlie!” Lewis said, “you might still be a suspect and thought to be trying to put them off the scent!”

  Charlie glanced at Rhiannon but didn’t reply.

  “It’s all very well to look offended, Charlie,” Lewis went on, “but the facts are, once you’ve broken the law you’re among the first suspects when anything like this happens. So don’t go near the police, it’s asking for trouble.”

  “Rhiannon is worried by seeing the man hanging around. I’ll go to the police because I don’t want her frightened.”

  Charlie’s voice was calm but Rhiannon recognised an edge of anger. It was time this conversation was stopped. “Come on, Gwyn, time we made the cocoa.”

  ”I’m thankful I’ve never been tempted,” Lewis went on as she left the room. “I’d never be bothered by the sight of a policeman knocking at my door.”

  “Lucky old you,” Charlie muttered.

  * * *

  A few days later, Gwyn saw the man whom he guessed was the one worrying Rhiannon. Playing a game, he followed him. The wily old man guessed and disappeared through an alleyway between two terraced houses and then through a garden and, unwilling to trespass, Gwyn lost him. Amused at the prospect of playing detective, Gwyn decided he’d look out for him and find out where he lived.

  * * *

  In an attempt to please Dora, Lewis offered to tidy up her back garden. When he had lived there it had successfully produced sufficient vegetables for the family, and seeing it neglected, partly dug over and then abandoned, he wanted to put it right.

  When she agreed, and even thanked him, he used any spare time he had, clearing dead plants, cutting back overgrown hedges and repairing the mess left by Dora’s furious assault on it. Instead of a regular surface, her anger had left it in heaps, and full of weeds.

  “What did you dig it with, a Mills bomb?” he asked when he had tamed about half of it.

  She laughed, her face eased of tension and he saw briefly the young woman he had married. “I was in a bit of a temper when I did it,” she admitted.

  “I guessed as much. Dora Lewis in a temper wouldn’t need a Mills bomb!” he teased.

  They discussed what was to be planted and decided that, with the family gone they could revert to growing flowers.

  “Sensible ones like chrysanthemums that you can pick to make displays for your tables up at the café?” he suggested. “And dahlias, how about some of those? It isn’t too late.” Soon Dora was working with him, and to see her parents working amicably side by side was more than Rhiannon and Viv had ever hoped.

  They spent several evenings poring over gardening books, choosing and drawing up plans. Rhiannon and Charlie linked fingers and made a wish when they called to see what progress had been made. If only Dora held back her temper they might be freed from having her father as their lodger before too long.

  * * *

  Lewis was leaving Dora’s one Saturday afternoon when he saw a policeman knocking at Rhiannon and Charlie’s door. He glared at Charlie as he opened the door. “I told you to stay away from them,” he hissed.

  “Mr Lewis Lewis?” the constable said.

  “
Yes. You’ll be wanting to talk to Charlie Bevan I suppose?” He stood back with a self-righteous sigh to allow the policeman to enter and was startled when he was told that it was in fact he, who was wanted.

  “Just to answer a few questions, Mr Lewis, sir. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Me?” Lewis’s look of outrage was so funny Charlie choked on laughter. What a pity Rhiannon was at work and Gwyn was out and were missing it.

  “We have a few dates on which we’d like you to tell us your movements.”

  “My movements? Whatever for?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, sir.”

  Lewis went to find his order and appointment books and the constable nodded politely at Charlie. “I just saw your son, Mr Bevan. Walking that dog of his down past the allotments. Good company for a boy, having a dog.”

  While Lewis thumbed through his appointments and the policeman compared the dates with those on his list he shook his head once or twice and frowned as he wrote furiously. He said nothing though, and when he left, thanked Lewis politely and said he might have to call again.

  “Just to tie up a few ends,” he told him.

  As soon as the policeman was gone, Lewis ran from the house and drove up to Rose Tree Café to tell Dora. She laughed at his outraged expression before reassuring him that several unlikely people were being questioned.

  “You fit the description, that’s all, and being a rep, you can be here and there in your car without anyone questioning your reason.”

  “It’s that Charlie’s fault! They wouldn’t have thought to question me if I hadn’t been living in the house of a criminal!”

  “Ex-criminal,” Dora corrected warningly. “Now, have a cup of tea and calm down. And don’t let Gwyn hear you talking like that!”

  * * *

  Gwyn was following the sad little figure of the old man. It was difficult with the dog to manage as Polly always wanted to rush everywhere and Gwyn had to hold her by the collar as he crept around corners and then ran to catch up with the man’s movements as he shuffled past the allotments and down a terrace of shabby dwellings in which several families lived in each house. He saw the man go into the house at the end and noted the number before turning to go home. Twenty-one Sebastopol Street. He glanced back as he reached the corner in time to see the old man hurrying off in the opposite direction. Had he been fooled again?

  It wasn’t difficult for Gwyn to catch him up but keeping out of sight while he followed him was almost impossible. He tied Polly to a lamppost, fed her with some biscuits from his pocket and went in pursuit.

  Via a circuitous route he was led to the lane behind the shops in Highbourne Road. From the corner he watched as the man slipped with the ease of familiarity through a fence, across a few gardens and into a house that appeared to be uninhabited. Surely he couldn’t live there? Although, if he was stealing food, he might easily be a tramp.

  “What are you doing round here, young Gwyn?” The voice, whispering in his ear so close, so unexpected, made the boy jump guiltily. He turned to see Percy Flemming behind him, a half smile on his thin face.

  Percy was dressed in corduroy trousers with string tied around the legs just below the knees, and large leather boots; his jumper was covered with earth stains and was torn in several places, and on his hands were large gloves that were stained and smelling unpleasantly of sepsis.

  “Dead rats among other things,” he said, in response to Gwyn’s wrinkled nose and critical expression.

  Percy worked as an assistant gardener at a hospital and dressed sensibly but neatly when he was working there, but when he was doing a very dirty job he wore an ancient outfit, which he would wear until it was too unpleasant, then throw it away.

  His wife Barbara went to jumble sales to buy odd waistcoats and jackets and boots specially for work like he was doing today. For his other, more profitable activities he had bought some top quality clothes and fine leather shoes. People judged others in part by what they wore and he wanted to give anyone who met him on his ‘other activities’, a completely wrong impression.

  “What are you doing, Mr Flemming?” Gwyn complained. “You smell a bit high!”

  “I’m unblocking a drain where a tree has broken through and blocked it. There were several drowned rats in there, rotted and disgusting. What a job, eh?” He put a hand in a bucket half filled with a black glutinous mess, as he waited for Gwyn to explain his reason for being in someone else’s garden.

  “I shouldn’t be here really,” Gwyn confessed. “Our Dad’ll tell me off good and proper for trespassing, but I was following an old man who’s been hanging around the lanes. Rhiannon was a bit worried. Seen him have you?”

  He described his quarry, and Percy said, “You must mean old Willie Jones. He used to live there.” He pointed a glove dripping the foul-smelling black substance, towards the back of Edward’s shop. “That was his draper’s shop until a few years ago. Harmless he is mind. You don’t want to worry about old Willie. He just wanders about because he hasn’t got anything better to do. Poor old fella.”

  His questions answered, Gwyn retrieved an anxious Polly and went home.

  * * *

  During the first week of business, Edward was surprised at how busy he was. When Megan wasn’t there, he used the lunch hour to reorder and follow up enquiries and rarely had time for more than a cup of tea and a sandwich. When Megan was there they usually managed to have something on toast, or a salad, which she prepared in his kitchen situated at the back of the flat.

  Most of Edward’s evenings were spent alone. Occasionally Megan and he met up and ate out but this was becoming less regular. Megan’s baby was due in a few weeks and she admitted to being very tired after a few hours in the shop.

  “Such a pity, as I enjoy it,” she sighed. “I never thought I would, but it’s fun helping people choose. Much more interesting than when I worked in Gwennie Woodlas’s ‘Gowns for Discerning Women’,” she laughed. “Gwennie is highly successful though, and I suppose I learned something by working with her.”

  “You’re a natural,” Edward told her proudly.

  They went out that evening and before they ate, Edward drove past the property where his sister and Megan’s Uncle Islwyn were planning to open a high-class restaurant. There were lights on in several of the rooms and, as there were no curtains in place, Megan dared Edward to go and have a look.

  “Knock at the door, d’you mean?”

  “No, Edward! Where’s your sense of fun? I mean creep up and look through the windows, see what they are doing.”

  “What if they see us? We’ll feel such fools.”

  “Speak for yourself! My uncle and your sister? Why shouldn’t we go and look. But we’ll try not to be seen.” She heaved herself laboriously out of the car before Edward could get around to help her and together they started up the drive.

  They heard voices raised in anger before they reached the window.

  “But I told you we had to wait,” Margaret was shouting. They couldn’t hear the lower voice of Islwyn but guessed he had done something of which Margaret disapproved.

  Moving closer they saw to their alarm that the room was a shambles. Walls had been removed and beams put in place, modern beams that purported to be ancient. All around the room chunks had been knocked out of the walls exposing myriad wires and the plaster was crumbling almost as they watched. There was a hole in the ceiling large enough to accommodate a small car, and coils of electric cables lay in a jumble on the floor where joists were exposed by boards having been lifted and carelessly cut.

  “Poor Margaret,” Edward muttered as he stood with an arm around Megan, and watched.

  “She’s either been completely misled by her surveyor or has chosen the wrong builder,” Megan whispered back. “Or both. Poor Margaret indeed.”

  When they got back to the car they sat for a moment thinking about what they had seen.

  “Anyone else would have said ‘serve her right’, but you don’t think like that, do you
?” Megan said softly. “You’re wishing you could help.”

  “I’m sorry for her. She was forced, by me, into giving up the house she loved, and now this new venture has obviously gone very, very wrong.”

  “I suspect she chose the wrong partner for such an enterprise in my uncle too. He isn’t exactly renowned for his enthusiasm for work!”

  “Shall we knock? Perhaps there’s some way I can help?”

  “D’you know, Edward, you’re a very nice man.”

  “That sounds boring.”

  Megan turned his head to face her and kissed him gently. “Boring you are not,” she murmured.

  “Then will you—”

  She smothered his words with her lips. “We’ll talk about the future once The Lump shows us what the future will be like. It won’t be peaceful and easy. Fun maybe, but life certainly won’t be as we envisage it now, without any experience on which to judge it. We both need to adjust to the changes he’ll bring.”

  A continuing stream of shouting changed their mind about knocking and they went to find somewhere to eat. After they’d eaten, Edward took Megan home. He didn’t go in but as usual waited until she was safely inside the door. She usually went in through the front but as they had driven from a different direction she walked up the path and in through the back door. Which was why her parents didn’t hear her.

  Walking without a sound into the hall she heard a grunt and a low moan of pain. Opening the door she saw a sight she would never forget – her mother cowering against the wall and her father punching her in the ribs and stomach.

  “Mummy! Daddy!” she screamed and ran to protect her mother from the blows. Ryan was frozen in the act of aiming another blow, his arm bent and his hand in a tight fist. The expression on his face changed like a kaleidoscope from hate to shock and back to hate again as he moved suddenly and left the room, pushing Megan away from him as he went.